


Sick Of My Own Skin

by Aetherios



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cutting, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Gen, Sad Draco Malfoy, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Draco Malfoy, Supportive Narcissa Black Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherios/pseuds/Aetherios
Summary: Being a Death Eater is nothing like Draco imagined. He hates every single part of it, especially the little tattoo on his forearm.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	Sick Of My Own Skin

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning: This story contains semi-graphic depictions of self-harm.** This piece was inspired by [poxei's](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/poxei) incredible artwork which you can find [here!](https://poxei.tumblr.com/post/622760083103842304/sick-of-my-own-skin)

It's been four hours. _Four_ fucking hours since he's officially become a Death Eater and he has already killed three people. Draco braces his arms on either side of the basin and heaves deep, gasping breaths, trying to dislodge those sickening images from his mind. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he swears that he can still feel Aunt Bella’s rancid breath on his neck, whispering to him to just kill the ‘filthy Muggle scum’ already. He can still see her wicked grin as a jet of green light strikes the young girl first. He can still hear her shriek of glee when he points his wand at the girl’s sobbing parents next. They were just Muggles, he chants to himself like a mantra. Only Muggles. 

He looks down at his left forearm, at the serpentine embodiment of death and dark magic marring his flesh, corrupting his skin, his mind, his fucking _soul._ As if his soul hasn’t been corrupted enough, he chuckles darkly. The coppery stench of blood hangs in the air and bile rises in his throat, hot tears stinging behind his eyelids.

He can’t remember the last time he’d cried. He hadn’t when the Dark Lord performed bout after bout of the Cruciatus Curse on him for his father’s failures. He certainly hadn’t when his ‘master’ dragged the tip of his wand down Draco’s arm, leaving a trail of scorched skin in its wake. And he hadn’t — but had come damn near _close —_ when the black tendrils of the Dark Mark lapped at his flesh like Fiendfyre.

But here, in the confines of his ornate bathroom, he lets his Occlumency walls fall and his tears fall faster. He cries for his mother, his sweet mother, who deserves so much more than this wretched life. He cries for his father, who should be here to help him but is in Azkaban instead. He cries for Albus _sodding_ Dumbledore, who would be dead by the end of the year.

But most of all, he cries for himself because he’s just joined a homicidal cult of sadists who mindlessly devoted their entire lives to serving the darkest wizard of all time. He cries because he has twelve months to figure out how to get said homicidal cult into Hogwarts and kill the Headmaster of his own school.

He glances back at his arm and resentment bubbles within him, replacing the sadness. The raised flesh around the ink is red and itchy and he feels the overwhelming urge to just get _rid_ of it. He pulls out his wand from his robes, levels it at the offending stain on his otherwise porcelain skin, and mutters a Slicing Hex. The skin tears open and Draco watches with disturbing fascination as dark red blood seeps from the gash, dripping to the black marble tiles. He grimaces when the Mark remains clearly distinguishable. 

He slashes his wand again and another gash appears, deeper than the first but far shorter. No, that just wouldn’t do. He whispers the incantation once, twice more before his knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, vision blurred. His heart soars in delight when he can no longer make out the outline of the ugly skull and snake. Could it really have been that easy?

“ _Vulnera Sanentur,_ ” he mumbles, mustering up the last of his energy to cast the healing spell. His skin stitches itself together and he releases a strangled sob at the sight of the Dark Mark still intact on his mangled forearm. It was foolish to even hope, he knows.

“Draco!” a voice shouts, and he can hardly hear it over the steady pounding in his ears. Narcissa Malfoy scurries into the bathroom and kneels next to her son’s bloodied form, pulling his head into her lap. “What did you do, my Dragon?” she asks, tears welling up in her own eyes.

His heart skips at the name. She hadn’t called him that in years. The last time had been when he was seven years old, after he’d broken his leg in a flying accident. He would give anything to go back to the time when a broken bone was the worst of his worries. “I hate it,” he whispers, eyes darting to his Mark. “I hate this. I hate _him_.”

Narcissa strokes his hair. “I know,” she says, pressing her lips to his forehead. “I know you do. It’s just a matter of time, my Dragon. It will all be over soon.” Draco, for his part, hopes that she’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> *sniffles* Well, that's how I imagined Draco would react to his Dark Mark. Hope you liked reading this!


End file.
